A Terrible Bedfellow
by The Girl with the Mousy Hair
Summary: Loki is difficult to share a bed with. So why, from time to time, does Sif find herself doing just that?


In many ways, Loki was a terrible bedfellow.

His hands were always like ice. The rest of him burned with some unquenchable heat - he was certainly too hot to hold for any length of time - but those elegant fingers were almost too cold to bear. They made her shiver.

He was restless, too. Some nights he thrashed in the sheets, tangling his legs to the point of waking himself up with a start. The frightened look in his eyes had lasted less than a second after waking, on the one occasion she'd been watching him when this happened, soon to be replaced with guarded indifference, a grunt, and an ill-tempered turn that had shaken the bedframe and left her with a view only of his pillow-scattered black hair. Presumably he dreamed of running, tripping, falling… though whether he was predator or prey in these dreams she had never been brave enough to ask.

Sometimes his magic would escape him, causing sparks and half-formed images in the night. This had happened less and less over the years, as he learned control over both sorcery and self, but occasionally the Lady Sif would still find her own rest disturbed by flickering starbursts of colour.

As if all that weren't enough, he also ground his teeth. It was a miracle that they weren't worn away to nothing - on a bad night, the noise was enough to penetrate even the deepest, most mead-soaked sleep.

Mead-soaked was how she generally was, when she found herself here. They were civil to each other when sober, but sometimes drink made them friendly. The kind of friendly that would have caused raised eyebrows if they had been careless enough to let it show. A few people must suspect, but nobody knew for sure. They each had their reasons to keep it this way - and anyway, this time was the last time. Sif always assured herself that _every_ time was the last time.

She glanced across at him now, listening to the ivory crackling sound of his tortured jaw. She felt infuriated with him for keeping her awake. Even in his sleep, Loki found ways to torment. She looked away, up to the high vaults of the ceiling, unable to make out much in the permanent gloom of Loki's quarters. He didn't like to let the sunlight in here. The servants would make sure the room was aired in the daytime - especially after a night of drinking, when the stale smell of hangover filled the air - but were always sure to re-close the heavy curtains in good time for the Prince retiring at night. Once, he had come back to find them open, and even though it was dark outside he'd sent out half a dozen images of himself to berate the first serving men and women they could find. Berate wasn't strong enough a word, by all accounts. Those servants had never set foot in his chambers again, and he always found his curtains closed from then on.

When they were young, this had seemed like late teenage sullenness, but Loki had never outgrown his liking for the dark. Much as they had never quite outgrown their intermittent fascination with each other.

She sighed to herself, considering nudging him, or rolling over ostentatiously to disturb his sleep and stop the infernal noise he was making. It wasn't so much loud as unsettling. At least he didn't snore, or steal the sheets for himself. Unlike his brother...

She stopped that thought in its tracks. If Thor ever found out about her infrequent liaisons with Loki, all hope would be dashed. Then again, these days Thor paid her little enough attention. His interest in her waxed and waned like the moon of Midgard. At its peak, they had shared more than just a bond of friendship. Those had been heady days and nights indeed. Now, she sought solace in others' company.

Sif wondered at herself. Thor was the kind of man she dreamed of, not Loki. Oh, he was comely enough, in his own way, and she knew that many a maiden (and less-than-maiden) would swoon over the thought of sharing his bed, but his lean frame and saturnine temperament would have been enough to dissuade her affections in any other man. He was not, to use common parlance, her type.

And yet, here she was. She let out another deep breath. It was always so clear to her that she should have no desire for Loki, right up to the point where she did. The fact that he knew of her affections for his brother only made matters worse. Secrets forge strong bonds.

Loki shifted in his sleep, long legs stretching out and folding back to a new configuration. He made a low sound in his throat, like the half-growl of a sleeping dog, then fell mercifully silent. She turned her head towards him again, observing his pale face briefly creasing in a frown. One of those cold hands rested under his head; the other disappeared somewhere under her pillow. If she concentrated, she imagined she could feel the chill radiating upwards.

He had many things to commend him, of course. He was quick witted, a fine opponent for verbal sparring. When he was in the right mood, his mischievous nature brought fun and laughter to any feast. On the nights they spent together, she had all of his attention. In between, she did not - and nor did he expect to have hers. He was independent. He respected her strength. He was a surprisingly sweet singer.

None of this changed his cruel streak or his sharp tongue. While he rarely turned either of these on her, she'd seen him plague his brother (and less evenly matched targets) with pranks designed to frighten and provoke. There was a bitterness in Loki that nothing seemed to sweeten for long.

Sif closed her eyes, and focused on her breathing, trying to lull herself back into slumber. There was no cause to lie here wakeful now that Loki's teeth had ceased their grating. This train of thought wasn't ready to stay itself just yet, though. It was hard to list Loki's good qualities without adding one last item in his favour.

He was a remarkable paramour.

Nothing was off-limits with Loki. The more he sensed she was reluctant to confess a desire, the more he wanted to try it. And his competitive nature meant he wanted to be the best at everything, every time. This had seemed utterly thrilling for the young woman Sif had once been, and perhaps that was part of the reason that, every so often, they found themselves in each others arms, even all these years later. In those days, he had been no more experienced than she - though by now he had overtaken her by a little. Being one of the Warriors Three had constricted her social life more than she cared to admit. But regardless of his youthful inexperience, he had never seemed to suffer the shy self-consciousness that other men and women have to overcome. All part of his devil-may-care bravado - or maybe he was as truly without shame as he seemed. Regardless, his determination to learn, to experiment, to please, was unparalleled.

The magic helped, too. It added a level of… unpredictability. It opened certain doors that most would never even knock on. Shape-shifting was the least of it: once, in a peculiar mood, Loki had put a glamour on Sif that made her an exact copy of himself. So help her if she hadn't found it utterly intoxicating, both the new appearance of her body and the sensations that came with it. It was something she would never tell another soul about.

Secrets forge strong bonds.

Sleep was a forlorn hope, now. She considered once again waking Loki - for a different reason, this time. She carefully rolled on to her side, only to find herself faced with sparkling eyes and a crooked smile.

'You seem restless, my lady,' he said, his voice clear and low.

'Maybe I am,' she answered.

'Let us see what can be done.'

She had no trouble sleeping, afterwards.


End file.
